


Old and new, borrowed and blue

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-01 04:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: It was never going to be f***ing traditional, was it?[A sequel to If I Should Falter]
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	1. Old

He opens his eyes to find the first light of January, 1988, is infiltrating the room through the curtains. It’s earlier than he’d like. He’s never been what you’d call a morning person, although months of sobriety and – yeah, alright, someone worth coming to bed at a reasonable hour for – means he’s seen rather more of them recently.

He leaves Ruth wallowing in sleep and staggers into the bathroom. Takes a piss and catches the eye of the old man in the mirror. The dawn light is soft, but it still seems to pick out every silver hair on his head. There are more than he cares to remember; going salt and pepper on top now, as well as the streaks at his temples. He’s been lazy about shaving over the holidays, his bristling stubble more than halfway to a beard. He scrubs his hand through it. Has it gotten grayer too? He sighs, shaking his head, and reaches for the razor. Almost back to just his mustache when he slips and nicks his chin. A bright red bead of blood wells up and he dabs at it with tissue paper. Fucking typical.

Ruth is awake when he returns, stretching out under the covers with a satisfied, sleepy smile. “Oh, wow,” she says, taking in his freshly shaved appearance. “I mean, I thought you were really embracing a kind of Chuck Norris look...”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

His tone is softer than his words, as he slides back into bed with her, pulling her into his arms. It’s the only way, he long ago learned, to steal back any semblance of his share. She hums her pleasure at the embrace and gives him a kiss. Her fingers trace a familiar path along his jaw, down his neck.

“Do you want to maybe talk about why you’ve woken up like a bear with a sore head?”

“No.”

“Is it my parents coming to visit?”

He screws up his face. He has no idea why she fucking does that; asks a question and then ignores his answer to give him one of her own. It’s annoying. Doubly so when she’s right. “I mean, it’s not exactly filling me with joy right now.”

“Sam—”

“Don’t, don’t fucking _Sam_ me—”

“Well, it is your _name_, so—”

“Jesus Christ! I’m just nervous. Alright?”

She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a squeak of outrage. It’s possibly a sound entirely unique to Ruth, he thinks. “I told you, they’re fine about… You know, everything...”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because wishing doesn’t make things so, he almost says. “C’mon. You’re their only kid. I doubt _this_ is exactly what they had in mind for your happily ever after.”

He indicates himself, a man who failed on step two of the whole _live fast; die young; leave a relatively good-looking corpse_ thing, and it’s her turn to pull a face. “Since when did you start caring what other people think?”

“I don’t! I just—” He sighs, because there’s no way he can say it. Not without triggering a much larger fight. He doesn’t really give a damn what they think, but he’s no desire to invite disdain under his own roof, either. There’s still a short-tempered miserable fuck that twitches beneath his skin. Ruth makes that monster easier to tame, but it’s still a fundamental part of who he is. He’s not sure he trusts himself to make it through a whole weekend without slipping back into old habits. “Just let me be fucking nervous, okay?”

“Fine.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. It sounds as if it’s just about anything _but_. “God damn it…”

“Sam?” 

“What?” It comes out soft, anxious. Until she kisses him again, long and deep, his freshly shaven face in her hands.

“Happy New Year.”

“Mm.” He presses his lips to hers again. “What time did you say they’re getting here, again?”

“Two.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Good?”

He rolls her over, underneath him, in reply.

“Oh,” she smiles, as he buries his face in her neck. “Alright…” She arches her body against his, and for a while at least it’s a very happy New Year indeed.

* * *

Justine, as far as he’s aware, doesn’t smoke. Not cigarettes, anyway. And he’s been off them for months now. Still, it’s a convenient excuse for them to have slipped outside together, if the question is asked. 

“I shouldn’t have come round.” She pulls her jacket more tightly around her shoulders, in the cool night air.

“Ah, c’mon, it’s your house too—”

“I know that, but it’s just… weird. I mean, are they going to be my… step… grand-parents? Is that even a thing?”

He almost swallows his own tongue. “I have no fucking idea.” He’s not even considered Ruth as Justine’s stepmother. The word sits on her as awkwardly as a green twinset and pearls do. “I don’t think… You don’t have to think about it in that way. Not if you don’t want to.”

She nods and he sighs, wondering how long they can string out this brief respite from carefully dull conversation. “What are the even _doing_ in there?”

“Trying on a dress.” He keeps his eyes on the patio furniture, letting her put the pieces together.

“A dress?”

Maybe it’s not as obvious as he thinks it is. “Her grandmother’s wedding dress,” he adds, still not daring to look at her face. “It’s a fucking family tradition. Apparently.”

“Jesus Christ,” she replies. Sounding for a moment so much like _him_ that he can’t help but huff a laugh through his nose. “They are… _so_ fucking weird.”

“I know, I know.” He lets out a breath into the cool night air. “You know, I’ve got a question for you about all this wedding shit, while we have a moment.”

“If you’re going to ask if I’ll wear a fucking dress, I’ll—”

“Jesus. _No_. I don’t give a fuck what you wear. Neither does Ruth.” He clears his throat, awkward. “This is… Uh. So, traditionally I’d need, you know, a best man…”

“Right.”

He sighs and pulls himself together. “I don’t have anyone that I… You know, last time I just asked Carolyn’s brother.” He shakes his head at the memory. “And it’s not like I’m having a bachelor party or any of that shit. So, I mostly just need someone to hold the rings and – and make me feel a bit less awkward standing by myself in front of everyone.”

She’s still staring at him, completely at sea. “So…who are you going to ask?”

“You, you idiot. I’m asking you.”

It’s an interesting emotional journey, that plays out on her face. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

“Oh, my God.” His heart leaps into his mouth, until she finally catches his eye and he realizes this is her way of saying yes. “This is going to be the _weirdest_ fucking wedding.”

He shrugs. “I mean, what were you expecting? Some boring church thing?”

“Just, please tell me you’re not going to do it in a wrestling ring.”

“No, no. That’s definitely off the table…” He presses his lips together, still half afraid of the confirmation. “So, you’ll do it?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

And he really would kill for a cigarette right about now, he thinks. But he’ll settle for this moment of awkward solidarity with her in the twilight instead. 

“Right,” he says. “Good. Thanks.” 


	2. New

Ruth is writing when he returns, framed in the window that looks out into their garden. She’s so absorbed in her task she doesn’t stir at the sound of the door, or his footsteps in the hall. She’s muttering to herself as her pen scratches out lines.

And he just watches her. Oblivious to him; illuminated in the afternoon sun. An errant lock of hair curls in the nape of her neck, escaped from her ponytail, and he wishes he had a camera to capture it. How stupidly beautiful she is in this unguarded moment. Elegant and graceful. That she can possibly be his makes no fucking sense; none. But he’ll take this universal miscalculation, this error in his favour, for as long as they can make it last.

“Hey,” he says, unable to hold himself apart from her any longer. “I’m back.”

“Sorry. Didn’t hear you—mmf!” It surprises her, still, something as sweet as a kiss. Her smile curves underneath his mouth. “I take it everything was fine at the airport?”

“Yeah, her flight left on time.” He buries his face in her neck for a moment, his thumb worrying over her bony shoulders, and she presses her head against his.

“You okay?”

He thinks about it. There is a weird sort of emptiness waving goodbye to Justine leaves with him. He wonders when it became so obvious. “Yeah,” he lies, finding that misbehaving lock of her hair and running it between his fingers. “I’ll be alright. Are you working?”

“Mm, give me another half an hour?”

He makes coffee while he waits. Wordlessly brings her a cup and leaves her be. There are functional things to occupy him, after all. Sheets to strip from the guest bed. Dinner plans to think of and—

Her arms, slipping around his waist, interrupt his consideration of the contents of their refrigerator. She presses her cheek against his back, between his shoulder blades. When she speaks, he can feel the rumble of her voice inside his own ribs. “Are you making dinner for me now, too?”

“I was thinking about it,” he confesses. “Would’ve been good.”

“Would’ve?”

He shuts the refrigerator. “You might have distracted me.”

She chuckles. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. C’mere.” He has the sense she’s feeling playful, ready to tease him, and he’s not got the patience for it. Filled with this strange sad empty feeling, he wants only the cure he knows she’s holding. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her instead, fierce with need. “You know, the house is ours again.”

“True,” she grins. Cat-with-the-cream pleased at his obvious want. “You want to go upstairs—?”

“No.”

She laughs, as he captures her mouth . Fumbling her jeans open, breaking apart only to try and pull her sweater over her head—

“Sam…”

“What?”

“Here? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Here; there; everywhere else I’ve thought about doing this over the last four fucking days. Does that sound good?”

She squeaks shock at this revelation. Jaw-hang surprise stretching into a smile, as she realises he’s serious, and she leans up to kiss him his answer. 

And if he stopped to think about it, it probably is fucking ridiculous. Or at least ridiculous fucking. Still in his open shirt and socks, hoisting Ruth up into his arms. Her lips tracing blind over his mouth; his nose; the ridge of his brow; as he presses her against the pantry door. He’s loud, breaking the quiet of their now-empty house, but she’s louder. Squeezing her legs around him, and his climax is sharp and sudden, cried out against her throat.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to hers. She’s not close enough to follow him, he can tell.

“It’s fine— you don’t have to—”

“No, I do, I—”

“Sam.”

He sighs and stops. “I know. I know.” Disentangling, he feels a fucking idiot now, half-naked in their kitchen. He goes to find his jeans rather than look at her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

“No.” But she puts her hand on his shoulder, then his cheek; drawing him to face her. He closes his eyes rather than meet her anxious gaze. “I don’t fucking know. Okay, Ruth? It doesn’t make sense to me either.”

“That you feel sad because your daughter left?”

He shakes his head, pressing his mouth into her palm. He doesn’t do sad. He’s irritable. Fucking frustrated. Other anger-adjacent emotions it’s a lot easier to recognise and process; that are more palatable to him than any sense of loss. “It’s not just— I mean, that’s not all of it.”

“Then what? Was it…?”

He opens his eyes. “Was it what?”

It’s her turn to pull a face. “…the dress? I mean, I know it’s a bit much—”

“No!” He thinks about it. “Alright, maybe a little! But not because of what you’re thinking.”

“You think you know what I’m thinking now?”

He grits his teeth. “Fine, fine. It’s not what I think you’re fucking thinking.”

“Which is what?”

“That I don’t want to do it anymore! Or that I don’t want you to, you know, wear whatever the fuck you want! I do. I do. I just—”

“Feel nervous?”

“Ruth, I’m fucking terrified.” The honesty surprises him as much as it does her. “I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t want to lose you. It’s just…”

That his experiences are bitter. That his instincts are bad. He isn’t sure why he can’t say it. He can’t see a future, right now, where he doesn’t throw this all away. Like every other good thing he’s ever had.

She nods, blinking hugely, her lips pressed tight together. “Come here.”

He lets her hold him, dropping his face into her shoulder and trying his best not to fucking cry. It’s new, this raw emotion shit. Letting himself feel; after decades of numbing himself with booze and blow and one-night stands. Like sobriety, and the modicum of mainstream professional success he seems to be enjoying right now, it all feels fucking surreal.

“Sam?”

“Mmm?”

“I want to marry you in the summer,” she says, and his stomach turns a somersault. “Somewhere outside. Just – just family and friends.”

He nods, still buried in her shoulder, not trusting his voice.

“And no stupid dress code, just what we want—”

“I want to take you to Italy. Afterwards, I mean. For the, uh, the honeymoon part.” Why the fuck that word is so difficult to say, he really has no idea.

“Rome?”

He huffs a laugh at her predictability. “Sure. Rome. On the way to Sicily. Or from it. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” she says, still holding him tight. She’s not just talking about the wedding, he knows. “We will.”


	3. Pants On

“Ok, _one_ more fucking time—”

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d just do the magic tricks and I did the juggling.”

“Jesus Christ, Ruth. How many times? I’m not a kid’s party entertainer, alright? And I didn’t sign up for this.”

“I know, but—”

“But _what_?”

She sighs and puts down the ball and cup. “But I did.”

“I know that. What I’m less clear on is _why_.”

“Because it… seemed like a nice idea at the time.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Because he does, truly, love the bones of this woman. It’s just that sometimes he really, _really_ wonders why. “If I do this—”

“Yes, I promise! Anything you want!”

He sits back in his chair at their dining table. Where he has, for forty minutes, tried to teach her the sleight of hand necessary for the trick to work. “I dunno. _Anything_ is... I mean, I’ve got a pretty big imagination.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

He’s characteristically nettled by the insinuation. “Are you saying I’m predictable?” 

She presses her lips together, considering her answer. “I’m just saying there’s a ninety percent chance that your first thought involved lingerie.”

Of course, she’s fucking right. But there’s such a thing as going down fighting. “No,” he manages, sullen. He can tell from the quirk of her mouth she knows he’s lying. “God _dammit_…”

* * *

It was a short slippery slope, then, that led to this indignity of performing shitty magic tricks for an audience of three-year-olds. On the plus side, they’re mostly interested in tearing around Debbie’s palatial gardens, armed with inflatables and sponge tubes that were Tammé’s contribution to Randy's birthday party. When the last tow-headed toddler has abandoned him, he makes his way over to the barbecue Keith is managing.

“How come you didn’t get roped in to being the fucking entertainment?” he grouses.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” smiles the stuntman, turning a hotdog. “You’ve got to sign up early if you want a job that isn’t sh— oh, hey, little legs!” He catches the small child about to barrel into him, lifting him into the air. “What did we say about running near the fire, hey?” The kid’s gaze has snagged on the stranger. “Oh, okay. We need some introductions. Michael, this is Uncle Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam manages. Michael stares back as if hypnotised, eyes saucer wide. And he feels almost as discombobulated as the kid, if he’s honest. It’s not that he’s unaware of the existence of honorific Uncles and Aunts – there were plenty enough in his own childhood – but it’s fucking _surreal_ to think of himself as one.

“Okay, you turn around now. Go play,” Keith continues, returning his son to the ground.

Sam watches him dully, running at full tilt to join Randy and the others. “Sometimes I feel like this is all one big fucking trip,” he hears himself say.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Don’t you? I mean, back when we first met—"

“We were both assholes. If you’re about to ask if I miss the old days… no. No-oo. I risked my ass for years in an industry that didn’t give a shit about me. Putting my body on the line every day. But I met a good woman. Better than I deserved. And now we have all of this together.”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He narrows his eyes, watching Ruth toss a juggling ball back and forth with Cherry, a gaggle of kids trying to catch. “Yeah, me too...”

* * *

It doesn’t get old, he’s finding. Their hazy post-coital tangle; all sweaty and well-fucked. A soft sleepiness descending that he’s powerless to resist. Usually he curls around her and they drift off together. But there’s something on her mind tonight; she’s not ready yet for sleep. Instead she’s wriggling up the bed to sit up against the headboard. He might be too sleepy to move, he decides. Looking up at her instead, as her fingers trace across his cheek; over prickling stubble he’s been too lazy to shave.

“Do you think you’d… ever want to have more children?” she says.

She might as well have asked him if he wants to fly to the moon, the question comes as such a surprise. “_What_?”

She winces. “Never mind. It – it doesn’t matter. Forget I—”

He can’t do this conversation lying down. He levers himself up, so he’s sitting up in the bed next to her. “Do you?”

“No! No, I— I was just asking—”

“Really? Asking?”

“What do you mean?”

He finds he’s very dry mouthed. “You’re not… telling?” He’s aware his attitude to contraception has been half-assed from their beginning. Being well behaved about the pull-out and trusting Ruth knew how to count. Not really thinking about it all, once he’d spotted the tell-tale days-of-the-week packet on her dresser.

It’s her turn to gape at him. “I’m not… pregnant Sam. Or trying to be.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. _Jesus_. I thought you knew I was on pill?”

“Well, yeah. But, you know, you could have stopped taking it—”

“You think I would do that without _telling_ you?” She’s almost shouting with indignation, and he backtracks hurriedly.

“No! Fuck. I just meant…” He’s not really sure what he meant. That it’s her body, at the end of the day. “Do you want to?” 

“Want to what?”

“Stop taking it.”

She opens her mouth, inhaling sharply, ready to give him the denial on the tip of her tongue. And then she catches his eye and something shifts in her expression. A little of the declarative certainty fading. “Not… right now,” she says instead. Watching his face, anxious. Waiting for the clue to his next reaction.

He's not sure himself what it might be, they’re off the road now, and travelling without a map. “You want to have a baby?”

“I… I don’t know,” she admits. “I always thought that…” She gestures vaguely, trying to untwist with her hands the knotted tangle of her thoughts. “…that one day I’d meet the right person and it would all just become inevitable.”

“Right.” Sometimes, even now, her naiveté catches him unawares.

“And then I stopped thinking about it at all.”

“Until today?”

“It was just different. That’s all. Cherry and Keith… seemed so _happy_.”

“Yeah. They are.”

“And it was… well, it was kind of _fun_.”

“Eh…” He pulls a face, putting his head on one side.

She gives him a shrewd look in return. “You don’t want one, do you?”

“No.”

Her eyelids flutter as she confronts the disappointment his honesty freights. Nodding her acceptance. “Well, I guess that’s my answer.”

“Oh, fuck,” he says with a sigh, taking her hand. “Look. I’m not sitting here thinking I really missed out because I’ve never changed a shitty diaper. You know? Babies are… a lot. But I got the chance to be a parent without all that shit. And I’m so fucking _grateful_ that Justine came to find me. I would _never_ have chosen it. But I... well, I actually like being a father. It means something. And I think it made me a better fucking person.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I don’t know, exactly! I guess, if you want that for yourself, I don’t want to be the one to stop you. Which means the real question is – do you want a kid badly enough to go it alone?”

Her breath catches. “If I want a kid you'll _leave?”_

“No! _No_! I’m just being realistic. I mean, c’mon Ruth. How long do I really have left? Five years? Ten? Let’s say, best case scenario, I’ve got another fifteen years. That’s not a bad return on a happily ever after with you. But even if we make a baby right now; I’m gone, and that kid is still a fucking kid.” 

There is a long moment. He examines their entwined hands minutely, unable to look at her. Eventually she nods. “I—I know.”

He finds he is nodding too. “So, if that’s what you really want… Fuck, I’ll do it. You know, I think we’d make a pretty cute kid. Smart.” He thinks on it some more. “I mean, neurotic, but we could – we could probably work on that.” He risks looking up at last, finding her smiling at his assessment. “We’d have to clear out the study, though. Do more with the garden. And figure out how the fuck to run the company without both of us—” He stops, because she is, to his confusion, now laughing at him. “_What_?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Something.”

“I just—! You go from not wanting a kid to planning out how it would all work!”

“Well, yeah! If we’re doing this, it needs some goddamn thought!”

“I know that! But I didn’t even know if you wanted to—”

“Well, if you do, I do! So—” He stops again, suddenly realizing the words that have left his mouth.

She’s staring at him in similar disbelief. “Really?”

Apparently playing magician at a kid’s birthday party isn’t enough for her to understand he’s a soft-hearted fool who’ll do almost anything to make her happy, at this juncture. “Yeah.”

“Woah.”

“Yeah,” he says again, and he's the one laughing now.

“I don’t know what to... I mean, do we just… see what happens?”

“What, if you stop…?" He squirms, slightly. "I mean, I’m pretty sure what happens is that you’d get pregnant.”

“Not necessarily—”

“Come on, Ruth! We know my stuff works. And that your stuff… also works…”

It’s her turn to make a face. “Could you _not_ put it that way?”

“I’m just saying, it’s not like some mysterious outcome, is it?”

“Well, I don’t know! We’re both older and—and—” She gives it up. “I guess I need to think about it some more.”

“Alright. Well, let me know what you fucking decide.” He kisses her. “Just, do me one favor?”

“What?”

“When you reach a decision, can it be a pants _on_ conversation? For my sake, please.”


End file.
